


The Witch

by Cornelius_Podmore



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Abuse, But Rosalie's gay so, Emmett Cullen Fanfiction, F/M, Romance, Thas all I got kids, Um . . .?, WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED, kinda smutty maybe??, twilight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:09:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornelius_Podmore/pseuds/Cornelius_Podmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington was an interesting place, mostly made up of squishy green plants and rain water. Mostly. There were also blood-singers and spirit-warriors and all manner of mysterious beings. And if you thought the vampires were a handful, just wait until the local surly art student get's pulled into the mix. She may very well have the most secrets of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            [Christina Whitmore -- Character Profile](http://www.polyvore.com/chris/set?id=182383560)

 

            Christina looked at the paint station in muted fury.

 

            As student helper in the art classroom, Christina was in charge of certain duties, such as keeping everything clean and usable. The paint station—which was a stretch of countertop beside the sink that held palettes, brushes, and multicolored bottles of acrylic and watercolor paint—was a particular obstacle of hers. And there was only one person capable of royally fucking it up _this badly_.

 

             She had spent more than an hour the previous day unclogging the paint bottles, taking inventory of which colors they needed to restock, and washing brushes; now it looked like warzone. Blue paint was dripped down the outside of the bottle and all across the countertop, along with the red. A small plastic cup that was generally used for water was filled nearly to the brim with enough green paint to cover a wall, and then left there, unused. It looked like someone had taken a paintbrush covered in dark purple and shoved it into the bottle of yellow—for half of the yellow paint was now a sickly brown—and then left said paintbrush out on the table, where it had nearly dried stiff.

 

             She took a deep breath and turned around.

 

             “Emmett,” She said, approaching one of the tables, where Emmett Cullen was cheerfully slapping paint onto an already drenched piece of cardstock paper, getting more on the table than anything else. “Do you want to explain what happened to my paint?”

 

            “Hey, Chris. You like?” He picked his painting up to show her. “I’m gonna title it ‘Springtime’. Or is that too pretentious?”

 

            “I thought we’d been over this.” She said patiently, ignoring the painting, which looked as if it had been done by a child.

 

            He put the painting down. “Oh, about the paint? Yeah I was going to get it but then I thought about the last time I tried to clean up a mess.” He suddenly looked childishly guilty. “I figured you would rather I just leave it.”

 

            Chris glanced at the floor in front of the paint station, where a five-square-foot patch of tile was permanently painted lime green. Emmett had been trying to squeeze paint from a clogged bottle when he, by methods she cannot fathom, somehow managed to bust the entire container open, dumping all of the paint onto the floor. He then had tried frantically to clean it up, only managing to spread it out and make it dry faster. As far as general disruption, outrageous messes, and ruining Chris’ day, Emmett was a repeat offender, a menace when it came to . . . well, just about everything.

 

              She ran her teeth over her top lip, trying to keep herself from shouting.

 

             “I will get it this time. Please try to be careful.” She said in a very level voice.

 

            “Will do, Teach.” He said with a little solute, “But really,” He picked up his painting, the paper drenched and heavy with water and pigment, “Do you think ‘Springtime’ is a good name for-” The paper slipped from his hands and the whole blessed thing landed face-down on the floor with a wet slapping noise. Paint splattered all over the floor, the furniture, and her.

 

            Chris closed her eyes and ground her teeth, fists clenching in an effort to restrain herself.

 

            Emmett looked up, trying to hide his laughter with an apologetic expression, “I am so sorry about that.”

 

            She wiped a single drop of paint from her cheek, pretty sure whole class could hear her breathing.

 

            “Get out.”

 

            Guiltily and biting his lip against a smile, he stood, picking up his painting (half of which was splattered on her jeans) and walked past her. He deposited the ruined paper on the drying rack and then walked out the door, leaving her to seethe in silence.

 

***

 

             “Jazz, heads up!” Emmett called across the Yard.

 

             The Yard was the large, ovular patch of grass around which the main buildings of Forks High School were situated. His adoptive brother was a mere twenty feet away from him, on his way to class.

 

            Jasper turned just in time to catch the football Emmett had thrown. He shot Emmett a mildly annoyed look and threw it back in a perfect spiral.

 

            “Not now, Emmett.” Jasper said in a clipped tone.

 

            But Emmett took no offence. Jasper was always a little more on edge than the rest of them, and Emmett had made it his personal goal to get the old soldier to lighten up.

 

            “C’mon, Jazzy.” Emmett said, knowing he hated that nickname. “You have to lighten up-”

 

             In the middle of Emmett’s next throw, he’d released the ball too quickly, and with far too much force, sending it flying with the force of a bullet straight in the direction of one of the buildings. The Yard was fairly deserted, but Emmett still could not risk using his super speed to catch the ball. He could do nothing but watch as it soared toward the electives building, and crashed through one of the windows of the art classroom.

 

            “Oh no.” Emmett said, stunned. “Dude,” He looked, wide-eyed at Jasper, who was trying and failing to reign in his laughter. “You couldn’t have _caught it?_ ”

 

            “Emmett, if you want me to catch the ball, you probably shouldn’t throw it _twenty feet to my left._ ”

 

            Emmett growled at him before turning back to the window, burying his hands in his hair. He tuned in his hypersensitive ears to see if anyone had been in the room to witness the accident. It was the end of the day, so there wasn’t a class in there, but someone was cursing. _Loudly._ And he recognized the voice.

 

            When he looked at the window again, Chris Whitmore was looking right at him, her expression alarming.

 

            “We need to go.” Emmett said.

 

            “What are you, ten?” Jasper asked, but Emmett grabbed his arm, wheeled him around, and began walking away as casually as he could manage.

 

            After a moment, he said, “I don’t hear anything else. Do you think I’m good?”

 

            “You mean other than your pride?” Jasper asked seriously.

 

            Emmett turned to glare his brother when a blow to the head nearly knocked him off his feet. Clutching the back of his head and cursing, he turned to find the source of the assault. The football bounced unevenly before coming to rest in the grass. Someone had thrown it at him. Emmett looked around the Yard before his eyes landed on Chris, who was standing at the edge of the grass. She looked him dead in the eyes while Jasper erupted in laughter before turning on her heel and going back inside.

 

 

            Rosalie was already biting back laughter when Emmett and Jasper arrived at the car, indicating that she’d seen the whole thing.

 

Emmett, whose hair was ruffled from where he’d been rubbing the back of his head, gave them all a look to indicate he didn’t want to talk about it.

 

            Jasper let out a low whistle and said, “Boy, you better be glad she can’t kill you.”

 

            “Although from the look on her face, she might just be angry enough to pull it off.” Edward said.  

 

            Emmett shot his adoptive brother a look just as Rosalie and Alice were unable to hold it in any longer and broke into a fit of giggles. Petulantly, Emmett huffed and climbed into the drivers’ seat of his jeep without a word.

 

            “Aw, c’mon Emmett . . .” Rosalie said,“Just because she can throw better than you-”

 

            “SHE CANNOT THROW BETTER THAN ME.” Emmett raged, only making them laugh harder. “GET IN THE CAR.”

 

            The siblings all schooled their expressions into impassiveness and did as Emmett said. Emmett was about to pull out of the parking space when he suddenly cursed and hit the brakes. Chris was walking right in front of the jeep.

 

            The plaintive squeak of the tires against the pavement caught her attention, but she wasn’t startled. She looked straight up at the windshield, held up the football in one hand, and used the other hand to give him the finger before getting into her car.

 

            “I like her.” Rosalie said, earning another glare from Emmett as he wheeled out of the parking lot.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Christina Whitmore was a resident of Forks. Her father was the history teacher at Forks High School, and her? She was one of the most well-known girls in town. Her best friend was the star football player of the Forks High Spartans, she worked at the most popular watering hole in the town, the art galleries which featured her work earned her and the school hundreds of dollars. Though she was not the most personable, the most likeable, everyone described her as talented, hard-working . . . a bit quiet and reserved, but overall far more pleasant than her father.

Anthony Whitmore was Chris’ only living relative, and he’s hated her for every second of it. Although, ‘hate’ is probably a strong word, because her father had nearly no concept of human emotions, hate included. He was rigid, cold, demanding, and not at all pleasant, and he made no effort to be, or to sugarcoat his unpleasantness, no matter who he was speaking to. He was the most feared and hated teacher at Forks High School, where he ran the history department. Not even Principle Greene would stand up to him.

Another reason she was well-known, ironically, was because the only other person she was associated with, her best friend, was the most well-liked kid in town, Silas Mathews. Silas was the quarterback of the football team. That’s about as famous as you can get in a town as small as Forks. He was also simultaneously the best-looking and most charming kid in the town (that was entirely human, of course), so he was one of those that knew and was loved by everyone, the rich and poor, jocks and nerds and art kids all the same. Everyone always wondered why a kid who was so cheerful chose the bitchy art student to hang out with, and the answer was quite a long story, but the truth was they worked well together. She was his only true friend.

Carlisle Cullen, the father figure of the Cullen family, had amusedly listened to Rosalie’s account of the events that had happened at school that day, before judging that they had better fix the window before he got a call from a disgruntled janitor, and told Emmett and Jasper to go fix it that night.

“No, it’s fine.” Emmett said, “I broke it, I’ll fix it.”

He entered the electives building at 4 AM through the shattered window and looked around. The football took out not only the window, but a shelf of art supplies and a potted plant. The plant was sitting in an old paint can, with soil piled in around it in a vain attempt to salvage it. The shelf had been stood back up, but the corner of it had been splintered in the fall, leaving the entire outer frame coming apart, and all of the shelf’s contents—a lifetime’s supply of colored pencils, watercolor pallets, charcoal, and oil pastels—were still scattered across the floor. He could see where she’d attempted to clean up some of the glass, and the drops of dried blood on the floor gave him a pretty good idea of why she’d given up

She’d left a note on the window sill for the janitor:

 

Some asshole broke the window. Will clean it up ASAP.

\- Chris

 

 

Emmett chuckled and then set to work. He fixed the shelf first, with some supplies from the wood shop, then began sorting the art supplies piled in the floor. While he cleaned, he thought about her.

Emmett had only decided to take art on a whim, when he was signing up for classes in the office at the same time she was applying for her student helper position. The student helper position was usually reserved for seniors, but she talked her way right into it. She’d spent nearly all her time in the art room as a kid, because her father worked at the school, and she spent nearly all her time there now (while still maintaining perfect grades, she pointed out), so she was more apt for the job than any other student in the school. She argued and talked until the poor secretary’s head was spinning, and was given the position ultimately just so she would shut up about it. That was when he really noticed her for the first time, and promptly put himself down for art class that day.

Since then the development of their relationship had been a rocky one . . . mostly because he was fairly certain she hated him. He was irresponsible and ridiculously messy and he broke things a lot. He did a lot of it just so she would talk to him—although breaking a window probably wasn’t the best way to win her over. Still, he could try to make up for it.  
***

When Christina Whitmore entered the art room for lunch (which was to be spent putting in a window), the mess left by the football had been completely cleaned up, to the very last pencil. The plant which she’d left in a rusting paint can had been placed in fresh new potting soil and watered and appeared to be faring well in its new makeshift pot. The shelf had been fixed and the art supplies sorted and put back in their cubbies just the way they were before, and the window had been replaced with a new one. On it there was a note written in an untidy, heavy-handed scrawl:

 

Sorry about the window. Nice throw.

-Emmett Cullen, Asshole

 

***

“Emmett, how’d it go this morning?” Jasper asked, taking a seat beside Alice at their usual lunch table.

Emmett shrugged, pulling an extra chair up in front of his and propping his foot up in the seat, tossing his arm over the back of his chair. “I fixed everything.” He said nonchalantly.

That was a massive understatement. He’d been more careful and meticulous in those four hours than he’d been . . . well . . . ever.

They all traded glances again.

“Do you want to elaborate?” Edward asked.

Emmett glanced up. “I replaced the window and cleaned up the glass.” He shrugged, “I guess its all good.”

“You guess?” Jasper said, raising an eyebrow at Emmett’s evasive behavior.

Emmett shrugged again, “Yeah, I mean,” He smiled, “There’s no football lodged in my windshield yet, so I assume we’re alright.”

“I thought about it.” Chris said, strolling up to their table. “But that jeep’s just a little too pretty.”

“Did you see the window?” Emmett asked, suddenly sitting up straight.

“I did.” She smiled, putting the football on the table, “I guess you _are_ capable of cleaning up your own messes.”

His smile widened as she turned and walked away, but it was short lived, for the rest of the Cullens suddenly broke out into a tight lipped conversation.

“What was _that?_ ”

“I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“I couldn’t sense her _at all_.”

Emmett turned, “What are you talking about?”

“She has no scent, no heartbeat. . . ” Rosalie said.

“I couldn’t get her thoughts either.” Edward chimed in, troubled.

“It’s not as if she was blocking herself from us, it was like there was _nothing there_.” Jasper murmured. “That must be why we’ve never noticed her before.”

“I could smell her.” Emmett said, uncertainly, and they all looked at him.

“Emmett, are you sure?”

“Yeah, her heartbeat, her breathing, it’s all there.” Emmett’s brow furrowed, “You guys can’t sense her?”

“Emmett, if we hadn’t seen her, we wouldn’t have believed she was there.” Edward said.

They all traded glances, confusion morphing into full-blown bewilderment as they watched her walk across the Yard and disappear into the art room.


	3. Chapter 3

Christina Whitmore’s eyebrow was pierced with a silver rod, and her lip with a small, dainty silver ring. The ring was placed in the center of her bottom lip, as opposed to the side, and complimented her face very well. It rested naturally in the curve of her lip and somehow made them seem even more sculpted than they already were. She also had a very strong face, with arched brows and high cheekbones, her nose pointed and straight and her chin cleft. 

When Emmett looked at her eyes, he did a double take. For, at first glance they were almost the color of his. He and his family, of course, all had amber-colored eyes which marked them as vampires. When he looked closer, he could see they were bronzy, with flecks of green in them, which, as her eyes seemed to change with the sun, became darker and darker until they matched her hair. They held a strength and potency that likened them to her personality. Strong eyes they were, bright and luminous, the kind that could convince you to do anything their owner asked. 

Someone very close to her in her family tree would have been of strong Mediterranean descent, for her skin was a deep olive tone, and her hair was black. But as he glanced at her hair, it seemed to change as much as her eyes. It was wild and curly and moved with every tiny shift of her body, so that no single hair had a permanent position on her head and it looked different every time he saw it. Also, it was not black like his hair—which was coarse and lusterless like coal—but was black like a raven’s feathers, soft and supple and shining in different hues of gold and blue and red and purple depending on how the light hit it. 

“You’re staring at me.” She said suddenly, not looking up from the pictures. 

It had been a few days since she gave the football back, and Emmett was staring at her. He realized that he could get used to staring at her. She was not a hard person to stare at. 

She was pinning photos into the trophy case outside the main office. He’d been skipping class, wandering around the hallways when he’d noticed her. 

“Is this your artwork?” He asked, moving behind her to look at them. Something she was wearing smelled divine, like jasmine and spearmint. 

“Some of it.” She said. “It’s the showcase. Every month we put up prints of the best artwork.” 

He looked at the pictures, and found a familiar one. 

“Hey, that’s Springtime!” 

She shook her head, “You’ve got to change that name.” 

“You liked my artwork.” He said, smiling a cheesy smile. 

She shrugged, fighting a smile herself. “You put a lot of work into it. It actually looked nice after you scraped it off the floor.” 

“I’m honored. Which ones are yours?” 

“You’ve been in art with me for a year and you don’t know what my work looks like?” 

He shrugged, “Maybe I’d rather look at you.” 

She glanced at him and rolled her eyes. “These are my most recent ones, part of a larger collection. 

“They’re . . . interesting.” He said slowly, looking at them. They were dark pictures, of the forest and of old buildings and things like broken glass and abandoned roads. Desolate photos, and somehow grotesque in the way they were taken, at weird angles or in peculiar lighting. They were oddly . . . 

“Unsettling.” She said, finishing his thoughts, almost in the way that Edward did sometimes. “That’s how they’re supposed to be. Not pretty.” 

“Oh, well then you did good!” He said, smiling, and she shot him a look, surveying him before a smile passed, unbidden, onto her lips. 

“Did you need something?” Chris asked him, chuckling. “Or are you just skipping class for fun?” 

“Neither.” He said, “They’re doing the blood testing thing in Bio today. I have an issue with blood.” 

“You don’t look like the squeamish type.” She shot him a peculiar look. 

“You don’t know anything about me.” Emmett countered, “I don’t have a type.” 

“Oh, you have a type.” 

“Really? And what is it?” 

Chris pursed her lips against a smile and didn’t answer.

“Hey,” He said after a moment of silence, during which he seemed to come to a decision. “I was thinking about asking you to tutor me.” 

She glanced at him, “Were you now?” 

“Well,” He smiled, “Don’t go getting a big head or anything.” 

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t worry. What am I supposed to tutor you in? Art?” 

He bit his lip, realizing that it didn’t quite sound right. “Well . . . among other things. I don’t exactly have the attention span for . . . uh, anything really and Carlisle—uh . . . my dad is really pushing me to get my grades up.” 

Chris looked him up and down for a moment before turning back to the photos. 

“I’ve got work.” 

“Oh, c’mon. Please?” 

She glanced at him again and relented. “I’ll be working at the Chief from five to eleven during the week. After nine it get’s kinda slow. I could do it then.” 

He bounced on his tip-toes excitedly, smiling. “Alright, it’s a date! Uh . . . not a date. A tutor date. Not like . . . a real date.” 

God, he hadn’t seen himself tank in front of a girl this bad since he was human and his voice still cracked. He felt like his tongue was two sizes too big for his mouth.

She shot him another weird look and a small smile, just as the bell rang, and she went to class. 

He watched after her, thinking about what he’d just done. As a general rule, the Cullens tried not to fool with the humans any more than they had too. The way Carlisle saw it, it just increased the likelihood of someone getting eaten. But he didn’t see Chris that way. Sometimes it barely even occurred to him that she was human. 

“What was that?” Rosalie interrupted his thoughts. 

“Probably the single most stressful experience of my life.” Emmett said, shaking his head.

“You were eaten by a bear, once. You remember that, don’t you?” She said, raising an eyebrow. 

He pursed his lips at her and then looked back at Chris’ retreating form. “She makes me . . . not good at talking. I mean I talk to her all the time in art but she rarely talks back. It’s unnerving.” 

“Aww, you have a crush on her.” Rose said, poking him in the stomach. 

He shot her a look that was almost annoyance, which was about as hostile as Emmett got, and then said, “I have to go to class.” And stepped around her.

Rosalie’s smile faded as he walked away. She knew he was intrigued by the girl, but he’d been intrigued by lots of women over the years. Never had he pursued one of them, and never had he stared after them like that. She wondered, as they all did, what was so different about her.


	4. Chapter 4

Christina’s shift at Chieftan’s Bar & Grill—nicknamed ‘The Chief’—was slow from the time she got there. Apparently not many people were craving salty, greasy food on a Tuesday night. Charlie was one exception. Charlie Swan was actually the Chief, the Police Chief of Forks, who ate in the little restaurant at least once a day. 

“You’d better be behind that bar getting napkins, little girl.” He called, pointing at her, eyebrows raised, as he stepped in the door. 

She laughed and held up her hands defensively, “Just putting in food orders, Chief. No drinking, promise.” 

He smiled, “How’s your old man? I haven’t spoken to him in a while.” 

“Mean as a damn snake, about like usual.” She smiled, jotting down his order from memory and turning it in.

“That sounds about right.” Charlie chuckled. “He treating you okay?” 

“Yeah, not bad.” She lied. “How’s Bella?” 

He shook his head, “Same as she was last time I talked to her. Four months ago.” 

“You sound bitter.” She said. 

“I’m not bitter.” 

“You sound it.” 

He shot her a look. “Am I getting my food or not?” 

She laughed and went to retrieve his meal, along with several other people’s and deliver them. 

Christina’s father hated her and he was her only living relative, so as far as family went, Charlie was about as close as she would ever get. He had a daughter Christina’s age that he never got to see, so the two of them made a pretty good pair. It was only a few minutes after Charlie left that Emmett came in, shaking the rain from his hair like a dog, and making her smile. 

“Hey, Stranger.” He smiled, glancing around the rest of the room—where people were openly gaping at him, Cullens were never seen in public outside of work or school—before sitting down at the bar across from her. 

“Hey, Cullen. What am I trying to teach you this evening?” 

“Uh . . .” He opened his book bag (which she’d never seen him carry in her life) and dug around inside. “I think this is math . .” He flopped a calculus book up on the table, “Physics . . . some kind of history—or is it government?” He shrugged, and pulled out a few more text books, “And then, of course, English.” 

She looked at him over the stack of books, many of them stuffed with crumpled papers because she’d never seen him with a binder either, and gave a small smile. 

“This isn’t going to be fun for me, is it?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s learning, its not supposed to be fun.” He smiled, “I’m sure we could find a way to make it fun if you want.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. 

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to be able to cover all of this in a few hours. We’ll do calculus first.” 

She helped him for the remaining two hours of her shift, and then for an extra thirty minutes when her boss got called out for something and she was left to clean and lock up the restaurant herself. Mostly, Emmett just listened to the sound of her voice, but, incidentally, he found himself learning things as well. Perhaps she truly had a gift for it, or it was just because he was hanging on to her every word. Either way, they worked well together. The thought made him happy. 

 

As he walked Christina home (she lived only a street away, and did not see the sense in driving), they talked of art class, and the books Emmett was forced to read in his English class. A few miles away, in the forest, a far different conversation was taking place. 

 

“Jasper, I think he . . . likes her.” Rosalie said quietly, as they stalked through the forest. 

She and Jasper were hunting alone this evening. Normally, Emmett joined them, but today he’d eaten early and gone off on his own. They did not ask where he was going because, usually, they never had to. Emmett wasn’t the type for disappearing into the forest, like Edward, or wandering off to gather his thoughts, like Jasper or Carlisle. He was 

And as Emmett was something of a child—at least at heart—they, as his closest friends, felt a shared duty to protect him, so Rosalie had decided to broach the subject of Christina Whitmore. 

“Who likes who?” Jasper said absently. 

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “Emmett. And the Whitmore girl.” 

“You think he has feelings for her?” Jasper asked, looking at her, “Are you sure he wasn’t just chatting her up? You know how he likes to flirt.” 

Rose shook her head, “No, no, this wasn’t that. I saw them talking together and he was . . . he was nervous . . . and awkward. I’ve seen him flirt. That doesn’t happen.” 

Jasper seemed troubled by the words, and was almost reluctant when he spoke. 

“Well, you know what kind of problems that could cause.” 

Of course he didn’t want to be the one to get in the way of Emmett’s happiness, but he was a realist. And if he didn’t point it out now then someone else would later. 

Rosalie’s face hardened. “I know.” She said. “I know we should talk some sense into him before it causes problems, it’s just . . .” 

“You care about him.” Jasper said. “We all do. But if he starts something with this girl and then she finds out about us . . . or worse . . . that jeopardizes all of us. It could end our treaty with the wolves, and that’s only if the Volturi don’t find out first.” 

“I know that.” She snapped. “But it’s . . . it’s not like one of Edward’s little woe-is-me episodes. I’ve never seen Emmett look at anyone like he looked at her. And she likes him too, I think.” Rosalie sighed and shook her head. “It just . . . it’s unfortunate. That’s all.” 

Jasper nodded, jaw clenched. “Do you want me to talk to him?” 

“No.” Rosalie said. “I’ll do it.”


	5. Chapter 5

            “Do you just . . . wander the hallways and _stare_ at people?” Chris asked, meeting Emmett’s eyes suddenly. “Or is it specific to me?”

 

            He’d been standing in the doorway of the art room, watching her as she smeared paint on a canvas. It was definitely specific to her.

 

            “It’s a nice painting.” He said, “How long does it take something like that to dry?”

 

            If the paint were not so thick, it’d have been dripping from the canvas. But he was hypnotized by the movements of her hands, erratic and spontaneous as she wielded the paint brush almost like a weapon, slathering paint on in short, angry bursts of brush strokes.

 

            “I guess I’ll find out.” She didn’t look up. Between the painting and her general demeanor, it was clear she was in a turbulent mood. She flicked her arm a bit too hard on a brush stroke and he saw her wince. Clenching her teeth, she put her paintbrush down and placed her hand on her shoulder, rolling the joint. She caught his eyes again, “You aren’t in here for two more periods. Can I help you with something?”

 

            She was alone in the art room.

           

           “Oh, uh, yeah. Goff sent me to sharpen these.” He held up a handful of yellow pencils.

 

            “The sharpeners are over there.” She gestured to the far corner of the room. “You know classrooms are equipped with those, right?”

 

            “Yeah, I uh . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “I broke hers.”

 

            Chris chuckled, “Breaking things is shaping up to be a talent of yours.”

 

            “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He said, opening a pencil box to find a collection of mechanical sharpeners, the ones you had to twist. “Why does the _art room_ not have an electric sharpener? I thought you guys were supposed to be more _evolved_ and all that.”

 

            She glanced up at his mocking tone, and then back down. “You broke it.”

 

            He looked down, grabbing one of the sharpeners. “Right.”

 

            Chris continued working on her painting while he began sharpening the pencils.

 

            Right away it became clear that the mechanical sharpeners were far too tedious for Emmett. Every thirty seconds or so, she would hear the snapping of pencil lead, followed by a loud huff and a curse. She had to hide her smirk and her laughter behind her canvas.

 

             After ten minutes he’d only successfully sharpened a single pencil, and three broken ones lay beside it. Taking pity, Chris put her paintbrushes down into a cup of water and pulled up a stool beside him. He watched her as she grabbed a sharpener from the box and began helping him.

 

             “CHRIS!!!” Someone screamed, making her jump and nearly fall out of her seat.

 

             Emmett of course heard the person coming, and couldn’t stop his laughter at her reaction.

 

             Her best friend, Silas Mathews, jumped through the door and skipped up to her, bursting at the seams with energy, as usual.

 

             Chris did not consider herself petite, by any means. Years of hiking and mountain climbing had left her quite fit, with muscular legs, and genetics had left her tall and full-figured. But she was dwarfed standing between Silas and Emmett. Silas was taller and leaner, but both of them carried more muscle than anything else. They were also equally attractive—which was saying something because Emmett was a Cullen.

 

            Silas was the poster-boy for bone structure, with a wide mouth and sculpted lips framed by a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. His eyes were a light, jade green that contrasted exquisitely with his long lashes and umber skin. As always, he was groomed to within an inch of his life, with dark jeans, a tight t-shirt, and a leather jacket. His hair was buzzed into a pristine low fade, allowing his tight obsidian curls to grow out a bit on top, and his growing stubble was nearly a work of art, with how cleanly and symmetrically it was shaved. Silas put more work into his appearance in one sitting than Chris did in a week, and he was very proud.

 

            “Silas, what the fuck . . .” She said plaintively, clutching her chest.

 

            He gave a wide, cheesy smile. “Sorry, babe.” He quickly kissed her on the cheek and she made a noise of mock disgust, roughly wiping her face. “Cullen, what’s up?”

 

            “Nothing too exciting.” Emmett smiled, and then waved the pencil he’d been trying to sharpen. “I broke Goff’s pencil sharpener.”

 

            Silas gave a theatrical gasp, “Has she set a date for your execution?”

 

            “Nah, I got lucky. She just sent me down here.” Emmett said.

 

            “To hang out with Chris?!” Silas said, “I’d take the execution.”

 

            Chris hauled off and punched him in the shoulder with enough force that he stumbled sideways.

 

            “I was kidding, damn!” He said, nursing his arm.

 

            “Yeah, I bet you were.” Chris said, laughing. “Why are you here?”

 

            “Oh, I’m headed out for Chinese. You want anything?” He asked, twirling his keys around his finger.

 

            “No thanks. I’m not feeling great today.” She said.

 

            Emmett noticed Silas’ eyes harden slightly as she said this and the boy looked discretely over her body, as if checking her for injuries. But, finding none, his eyes found her face again and some kind of silent message was conveyed.

 

            Their unspoken conversation was broken up by a fourth person entering the room, and Chris’ mood visibly soured again.

 

            Anthony Whitmore. Christina’s father. He was every bit as tall as Silas and his presence noticeably chilled the room.

 

            “Christina, I need to speak with you.” He said, in a voice which reeked with unwavering dominance.

 

            He was a tall man, but he was not awkward or disheveled in the way that many tall people could be. It was not only his voice, but his entire body which reeked of unwavering dominance, his chin always tilted up, and eyes narrowed so that he could constantly look down upon everyone he came into contact with. Also, he looked nothing like his daughter. His skin was unmistakably white, where his daughter could have passed for full-blooded Mediterranean, and though his hair was salt-and-pepper grey now, strands could still be seen of a reddish brown color. Where Chris carried herself with confidence, her father did so with unmistakable arrogance, and while Chris feigned detachment and impassiveness, her father accomplished it without effort. Instantly dislikeable, Emmett deduced, and apparently Silas and Mr. Whitmore’s own daughter agreed.

 

            “I’m helping sharpen pencils.”

 

            “I’m sure Cullen and Mathews don’t need help sharpening pencils.” He said, “C’mon.”

 

            Emmett watched Christina. She was . . . changed around her father. Her eyes refused to meet anything but the ground.

 

            “I’m the student helper.” She said, “If I leave when I’m not supposed to they take the position away from me.”

 

            Her voice was neither hostile nor pleading, simply monotone. If anyone else had been so insistent with her, she’d have told them to fuck off, but not her father.

 

            Mr. Whitmore sighed, as if arguing with a child. “You always have to be difficult. I only wanted to speak with you for a moment.”

 

            Chris pursed her lips. “I’m working.”

 

            He looked at her for a moment, then to the boys, as if weighing the cost of saying something in front of them, eventually deciding against it.

 

            “Very well.” He glanced at the two boys, his eyes lingering on Emmett for a moment, and back to her. “Be careful in here by yourself.”

 

            Chris paused in what she was doing as if she’d been struck a blow. Emmett shifted toward her, immediately concerned, and Silas stepped forward.

 

            “With all due respect, Mr. Whitmore, I think you should go.” Silas said, and though his tone was civil, his eyes were chilling.    

 

            “Just watching out for my daughter, Mr. Mathews.” Mr. Whitmore said, he and Chris sharing a gaze that indicated they were talking about something entirely different than what was being said. “I know how you jock types can be-”  

 

            “Please get out.” She said, finding her voice, though her eyes conveyed unmistakable pain.

 

            He closed his mouth, unaffected, and then simply said, “We’ll talk about this when you get home.” Chris waited until she heard the metal double doors shut to indicate that he had left the building before she took a breath.

 

            “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She said quietly to Emmett. The pencil in her left hand that she’d been sharpening had splintered in her tight grip.

 

           “Don’t worry about it, it’s-” Emmett began, but stopped.

 

            Chris hissed slightly as she opened her hand, and Emmett tensed, holding his breath. The broken pencil had pierced the skin.

 

            A few drops of blood, no bigger than the head of a pen welled from the small wound and Emmett watched them hungrily. Not hunting that morning was definitely not a good call. He swallowed thickly and the muscles of his throat rubbed together like sandpaper, aching and burning with hunger.

 

            “Fuck.” She said closing her hand tightly over the blood and quickly moving to the back of the classroom to wash it off.

 

            The sight of the blood was enough to make his throat ache, but the smell . . . _her_ smell . . . it was a good thing the rest of his family could not smell it. Jasper would not have been able to help himself.

 

            Silas went to check the wound, but she pushed his hands away, so he just watched her, clearly worried. Emmett stayed right where he was—with as much distance between him and her as was possible without him racing out of the room.

 

            “Is it bad?” He asked, clearing his throat and not daring to breath until she had safely washed it all down the drain and wrapped her hand tightly.

 

            “I’ve had worse.” Chris said quietly. “Uh, you guys should probably go.” Her voice was distant, numb, exhausted.

 

            Silas nodded immediately, though he looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was leave her. “Alright, babe. You wanna stay with me tonight? My old man’s not gonna be in.”

            She nodded and he hugged her and left.

 

            “I think all your pencils are sharpened.” She said. “You’d better get back before Ms. Goff has to come looking for you.”

 

            He was certain they had not sharpened more than half of the pencils before Anthony Whitmore had come along, but all of them laid, perfectly sharpened, on the table now. He was too worried about her to notice.

 

            Her voice was detached, far away, and . . . was she crying? She was facing away from him so he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t try to find out because he knew that, if she were crying, he would want nothing more in the world than to comfort her. He would want to make her happy even more than he wanted the blood in her veins. And that thought, the sudden severity of his feelings for the girl, scared the hell out of him.

 

            “Yeah, I’d better.” He said as he scooped up the newly sharpened pencils. “Are you . . . I mean . . . are you okay?” He asked uncomfortably.

 

            Chris would not show him her face, but she laughed. It did not sound real.

 

            “I’m good, Cullen. It’s just a bad day.” She said, her voice was far away. “Go back to class.”

 

            And he did.  

 

           

            By the time school let out that day, a turbulent rain had settled over Forks that had been nowhere in the weather forecast, and it was credited entirely to the turbulent mood of Christina Whitmore. Her hand had healed itself completely within an hour, her other ailments (this time it was a stiffness in her shoulders and a very touchy bruise across her side, the result of a nasty fall down the steps) were fading in their own time. Her father had been the cause of both, and it would be his anger, once again, that elevated the rain to a full-blown thunderstorm before the evening was up. She wondered what injuries would be healing by tomorrow.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The list of mysteries surrounding Christina Whitmore were growing as weeks passed: her father, her changing moods, her curious ability to shield her scent and heartbeat from vampires, and how Emmett was somehow exempt from said shielding abilities. 

The list of things Emmett knew about her were growing as well. Her favorite artist was Van Gogh. She was a Scorpio, her favorite color was dark green, and she had a dog—what was its name? It started with an F, he knew. She liked hiking and backpacking and going for walks . . . of course, he hadn’t found out anything as far as her weird shielding abilities, much to his families dismay, but what was he supposed to do? 

“I just don’t understand how you can talk to someone every day for two weeks and not have any useful information by now.” Rosalie reasoned, as they took their seats at the lunch table. m

“How do you suggest I go about that, Rose?” Emmett demanded. “I just have to keep talking to her. It’s going to take time.” 

“Wow.” Edward said, “He’s slowly inserting himself into a categorically doomed relationship and I’m still considered the melodramatic one?”

“Yes.” Rosalie said flatly. 

“Don’t you have to go brood in your favorite meadow or something, Ed?” Emmett shot back, “It’s not like I’m gonna marry the chick. It’s just flirting.” 

“Your thoughts say otherwise.” Edward said knowingly. 

“So do his emotions.” Jasper added. 

“And his future.” Alice taunted, with a smile. 

“C’mon Emmett, you know I know you better than that.” Rose said, leaning forward. 

Could he not have anything to himself in this family? Not even his thoughts were his own. 

“Just because I think she’s better company then all of you-” He began heatedly, and then stopped. “Alice, what did you say?” 

“About what?” She asked innocently. 

Emmett eyed her, “My future.” 

“Oh, that?” She waved him off, eyes alight with mystery, “I just get glimpses.” 

“And what did you see?” He struggled to remain patient. 

“Christina.” 

He waited expectantly for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he leaned forward. “Alice.” 

“Hmm?” 

“The girl. What’d you see?” 

She finally took mercy, smiling at him and shrugging. “Just her. She’s in your future, that’s all I know.” 

Alice grabbed Jasper’s hand and got up from the table, shooting him an enigmatic look before they dumped their trays and left, leaving Rose and Edward to watch him in amusement as he looked at the table, gears turning in his head.

 

If Emmett was struggling, Christina was in her own personal hell. 

 

“Silas, I swear to God-” Chris began, white-knuckling her sketchbook, but Silas interrupted her again. 

“Are you gonna fuck him? That’s all I want to know.” Silas said, as if it were a reasonable request. 

Chris glanced around the yard to see if any Cullens were close enough to hear, but none of them were even in sight. 

“Can you keep your voice down, please?” She growled. “No. I’m not going to fuck him. Jesus.” 

He huffed. “Okay, but tell me you’ve at least thought about it.” Silas said, “I mean. I’ve thought about it.” 

She smiled in spite of herself. “It may have crossed my mind, in a purely hypothetical sense . . . but . . . I don’t know. I think he actually likes me.” 

“And if he does?” 

“You know I don’t do the relationship thing.” 

“Who needs relationships? You two could just be . . . friends that have sex monogamously. Closed-relationship fuck buddies.” 

“I don’t think he wants just sex from me.” She said seriously. “I won’t get his hopes up for something I don’t want just to get laid.”

“Well . . . are you sure you don’t want it?” Silas asked. 

She did not answer.

After a few minutes, Silas clapped his hands together. “Alright, so other than Cullen, is there anyone you’ve had your eye on?” 

Chris shook off the weight of their previous conversation and looked around the Yard at prospective partners. She hummed pensively. Her situation with Emmett was complicated, and she was not good at complicated, but this? This was simple. 

Chris’s promiscuous sex life was not huge topic of conversation at the high school, for she was very good at going unnoticed, and persuading her partners to keep their mouths shut. Even still, it was by no means a secret, and she had no intention of making it one. Sex was fun, and she was good at it, and she was quite proud that she was good at it, and choosing partners was half the game. 

“Let’s see . . .” She said, her eyes eventually landing on a short but muscular boy with sandy, curly hair. She recognized him. He was on the football team with Silas. “Bingo.” 

“Who? Jonathan?” Silas followed her gaze. “Not bad. I don’t really know anything about his skills off the field, if you know what I mean.” 

She glanced sideways at him. “I always know what you mean.” 

“He’s in shape. Almost as good as me.” Silas said. 

“Well,” Chris began walking in the direction of her class. “If he’s not any good now, I guarantee he will be soon.” 

She tossed her hair theatrically and strutted off in the direction of the science building (they had a lab today, the only reason she would not be in the art room that period). Silas laughed and hooted after her at her suggestive comment. Chris passed the boy named Jonathan, giving him a once-over and smiling at him. He smiled back. 

Across the stretch of grass, Emmett watched Chris enter the science building, his lips pulled into a deep frown.


	7. Chapter 7

Emmett released the mountain lion, and it fell to the ground, lifeless. He looked upon the animal, wiping his mouth in disdain. He hated the taste of mountain lion. It was only because of Carlisle’s admonishments about the sizeable dent in the grizzly bear population that he was even settling for it. 

Emmett also usually didn’t hunt in Forks because of all the hiking trails and camp sites—it was too easy to be spotted, or tempted with a wounded camper—but his agitation over the entire Chris situation—particularly what he’d heard today—had him all high-strung, turning an already serious hunger into a ravenous one. The mountain lion was his fourth kill of the night, after two deer and a beaver. He tried to shake thoughts of her from his head as he made his way home but he just couldn’t. 

Jonathan Camry. Of all the guys in the school, she was going for Jonathan Camry? He was a good, honest kid. A humble background and benign disposition and all that . . . but he was so invariably ordinary, especially in context with Chris. Jonathan was handsome enough, Emmett allowed, but next to Chris the poor kid was one step above a sheep dog. 

But if Jonathan was ordinary, what did that make Emmett? He cringed at the thought, and the thought of her and Jonathan together made him so sick and furious that it scared him. And the more he tried to reason that she was not his to be jealous over, the more he wanted that to be a lie. He wanted her. And not just like a vampire wants a human, but like all the teenage boys at school wanted her when they looked at her, and even more than that. He wanted to be with her and to protect her and to love her. 

He teased himself relentlessly about it, too. At the ridiculousness of the entire notion. He could have at least gotten the hots for someone he could actually be with, without fear of killing her. But joking about it only made it worse, as did the fact that he knew was being so transparent about it. 

And that frustration was translated in his predatory mind into the primary instinct of his kind: hunger. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Rose asked him, taking a seat beside him, on the front stoop of the Cullen house. The rest of the family had gone hunting. “I mean . .” Her lips twitched, “Lord knows I complain to you enough. About all of my problems.” 

Emmett half smiled, “I don’t mind dealing with your problems. It gives me something to do.” 

“That’s because you’ve never had problems.” Rose said, “Not even with becoming a vampire. You’re just . . . okay, with everything.” She rose an eyebrow and tilted her head. “I actually thought it was annoying for a while.” 

Emmett looked at her. “Hey!” 

“For a while. And then it was more refreshing.” She half smiled, and then looked at him seriously. “It’s weird seeing you like this.” 

He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers, as if in reassurance that he was okay, and then he sighed. “I’ve just . . . never been this hung up on someone before. I mean it’s like . . . it’s like she’s in my head, Rose. And I can’t shake her.” 

Rosalie pursed her lips, but nodded. 

He couldn’t help but feel bad discussing it with her. Rosalie had been searching for her own happiness for longer than Emmett had, since before her transformation. Her search for happiness was ultimately what had gotten her killed in the first place. When Carlisle turned her, he’d hoped that she would find that happiness with Edward, but she never did. And then, when she’d saved Emmett and brought him to Carlisle to turn him, the three of them had secretly hoped that she and him would find happiness in each other. And they did, in a way.   
Rosalie’s ultimate problem was loneliness. She’d been lonely throughout her human life and hoped when she married it would be gone. Then, after she was killed and saved by Carlisle, she still wanted to find companionship in a lover. She’d never expected that having a friend could work too, but it did, and Emmett became that friend. Still, though, Rosalie wanted love, wanted romance, and he knew how much it hurt her that she just wasn’t able to find it. He hated to sit here and tell her that he’d found what she’d been searching for her whole life, in a random human girl. 

“She’s human, Emmett.” Rose said, though her tone was quiet and regretful rather than clipped and cold. “You can’t be the one to take that away from her, to make her what we are. I know you deal with it well, but . . . even if she loves you back-” 

“I don’t-” He had raised his voice, and Rosalie winced. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. “I don’t love her. Okay? It’s just . . . it’s complicated. I don’t do complicated very often but I’ll get used to it. I’ll get over it.” 

Rosalie looked at him worriedly, and then nodded. “What do you need me to do?” 

He looked up at her and smiled, grabbing her hand with his. “Nah, don’t worry about me.” He waved it off, recovering his overconfident smile. “Have you ever known me to lose a fight?” 

She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything, still worried about him, about what he might do. Emmett was one of those people that had never had a serious problem in his life. He never got depressed, or irritable, or—despite his aggressive nature—truly angry. He had money for all the expensive toys he desired and infinite speed and strength, he had Rose and Jasper, friends whose company he truly enjoyed, and Esme and Carlisle—parental figures to reign him in and care about him. Of course, there were things he desired—god, the sexual frustration that radiated off of him was nearly unbearable, and only got worse with each passing year—but even outside of sex . . . Rose could tell he thought about it just as she and Edward did, about what it would be like to have someone. She only hoped he didn’t do anything to put the family in danger. 

******

It was 6 AM, and Chris was sitting in Jonathan Camry’s Camaro, where she had been since around ten the previous night. They were parked in a small gravel wide spot off of one of Forks’ many unused back roads. She had already found her jeans and pulled them on, and was now working on her bra. Jonathan himself had only pulled on his boxers so far, and was instead spending his time enjoying the view. 

“Are you sure you have to leave?” He asked, pulling her hair away from her shoulder and kissing her neck. 

She smiled, “School starts in two hours and I wore these clothes yesterday.” 

“We could take the day off.” He suggested, “I think we’ve worked hard enough in the past few hours.” 

Had she been in a worse mood, she’d have pointed out that he had not worked very hard at all, despite how proud he was of himself, and that most of the grunt work had been done by her, but she was satisfied and surprisingly energized, despite her lack of sleep, so she just smiled and turned around so she was straddling him, and he sat up and pulled her hips against him. His mouth went to kiss her neck and she sighed. 

“Well . . . it does sound awfully tempting-” But her words froze in her mouth, because, when she closed her eyes, it had not been Jonathan who was kissing her. 

The long sandy hair she’d been tangling her fingers in became short and thick and the color of obsidian, and it was Emmett’s voice which vibrated against her throat. 

She gasped and opened her eyes. 

“What? What is it?” Jonathan asked. 

She looked at him for a moment, familiarizing herself with his face and reassuring herself that it was not Emmett’s, and she shook her head. 

“Nothing . . . nothing. It’s fine.” 

He nodded and continued his assault. 

Emmett’s huge hands slid up her thighs to her hips, where he pulled her tighter against him. She moaned their proximity, at his lips on her collarbone, traveling down to her breasts. 

“All hot for me, Chris?” Emmett mocked, smiling wickedly, proud of the affect he’d had on her. 

“Shut the hell up.” She growled, pushing him back against the seat and beginning an assault of her own. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Jonathan said, amused. 

She opened her eyes and froze again. Jonathan, not Emmett, looked at her, confused. 

“Why’d you stop?” He asked. 

Not Emmett. Not Emmett. Jonathan. 

She suddenly felt very claustrophobic inside the small car. She opened the door and got out, grabbing her shirt and pulling it over her head quickly. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I just remembered I’ve got something I have to do.” She lied. “It’s really important. Sorry.” 

“Well . . .” He paused, still catching his breath, “Will I see you again?” 

“At school, I’m sure.” She said vaguely, tugging on her shoes and grabbing her phone and her keys. “Thanks for the sex.”


	8. Chapter 8

The drive home was a peaceful one, perfect for shaking off what had just happened with Jonathan. It was a nice morning—or rather, since the sun had not yet risen, it was going to be a nice morning. The mountain air was brisk and thick with moisture, but it wasn’t raining, so she decided to put the top down on her car. Since she was going slow, and the wind was not roaring in her ears, around her she heard nothing but the birds beginning to chirp and the sound of the fallen rain dripping from one leaf to the next. Other than that, it was silent . . . breathtakingly silent, and fog was gathering in the valleys just as she glimpsed the first ray of sun peaking over the mountains and weaving through the trees.

The sun was, of course, soon overcome by clouds as she drove home, but the clouds were wispy and light. No rain for at least most of the week, she deduced. They may even get some sun.

Chris did not bother trying to sneak into her house, but instead opened the door with a mumbled ‘I’m home’ and closed it behind her. Her father did not so much as stir long enough to tell her to be quiet, much less ask where she’d been all night. As usual, she was a ghost in her own house.

She entered her room, undressing as she went, and climbed into her shower. By the time she emerged, clean and dressed, she could hear her father stirring in the kitchen. With her father, there was never any way to gauge how angry he would be at something. Sometimes, he would simply tell her what a disappointment to the family she was, in his trademark cold and impassive voice. Other times, he got angry, and then he got scary, and then she got hurt. So, squaring her jaw, she made her way into the kitchen, sitting down her school bag on the dining table and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Do you want to tell me where you were last night?” He asked, as if making polite conversation.

She sipped her coffee. “I was out-”

But she didn’t get to finish the sentence because she was choking. The coffee had turned to acid in her mouth, and not because it was hot. Silver. He’d brewed the coffee with silver. If you looked close enough, flecks could be seen floating in the coffee. She gasped for air, coughing and splattering the cabinet in front of her with blood and coffee. It was a blinding, searing pain, like someone had pried her mouth open and shoved hot coals down her throat, and as the coffee reached her stomach, the feeling spread throughout her body as she absorbed the essence of the metal.

Silver was toxic to witches, like garlic was supposed to be to vampires. Enough of it could make her blood boil. Literally. She stayed over the sink for a moment, her mouth open and still dripping blood.

“I wouldn’t be forced to do these things if you’d simply listen, Christina-”

“You just tried to poison me.” She said, tears streaming, unwelcome, down her face.

“We aren’t a normal family, Christina. We have to be especially cautious about the friends we make. Now, if you were out with that Cullen boy-”

“The Cullens have nothing to do with this.” She said, in a more acidic tone than she’d ever taken with her father, spitting blood into the sink and wiping her mouth, leaning heavily on the counter.

“I don’t want you consorting with them, Chris, they are our enemies.” Her father said sternly. “You’re never to talk to that boy again.”

Chris was seething, as if she’d never truly felt the effect of her father’s past abuse, and years of grief, anger, and resentment flooded her chest all at once, leaving her feeling breathless and stronger than she’d ever felt before.

“No.” She said, barely above a whisper.

He paused, “What?”

“I said no.” She grit her teeth against the pain and weakness in her muscles from the poison and turned to face him. “Families look out for each other. We’re not family.”

Her face was calm, as was her voice. Instead, her anger presented itself, as a witch’s emotions tend to do, in the area around her. The air wavered like a mirage, as if charged with invisible heat, the light above the sink glared bright and buzzed with power absorbed from her, and things on the counter—the counter itself, in fact—was vibrating.

His lips curled and he took a step in her direction, making her flinch instinctively, but she made no gesture of submission.

“Against the vampires we are.” He said coldly, “End of story.”

“I don’t take orders from you-”

But she didn’t get to finish her sentence because, with a flick of his hand, her father had sent her flying backward, across the dining room table and into the wall. The crown of her skull cracked into the wall hard enough for her vision to erupt in white spots, but the real pain was when her body landed heavily on the upturned chairs. Chair legs hit her thighs, her shoulders, one leg hit her ribs so hard she felt it crack, and groaned in pain, and one hit her square in the jaw. She rolled and found her way into the floor, then onto her hands and knees, dribbling blood on the rug.

“You will whether you want to or not, little girl.” He purred, something dangerous and inhuman flashing in his eyes as he towered over her. “You may have killed your mother for those powers inside you but I’m still older. And stronger.”

When her father had first openly blamed her for her mother’s death, it had broken her heart, but soon enough he’d used it so much it barely even registered what he said anymore. His hurtful words, in their frequency, had turned to white noise in her ears.

She looked at him, and a pleasant, fiery warmth brewed in her core, and then radiated out from her, and though the naked eye could not see it, she felt it hit him.

“Get the fuck away from me.” Her voice was a growl. If she was struggling against his power it did not show in her voice.

He strained against the weight of her power, fighting it. He smiled at her effort at first, and then it fell into a frown and something like a snarl tore from his lips as he had to work harder to resist its force. She could see veins bulging in his neck at the effort it was taking him now, just to stand under the pressure.

“How cute.” He sneered, his imminent defeat making him vicious. “Have you been practicing without me, Christina?”

“You tell me.” She said, gathering more energy and knocking him clean off his feet. She was not able to manage nearly as much sudden force as he had with her, but he certainly felt it. He landed on the floor in a grunt of pain. She stood, her voice slow and deliberate, and free of fear. “We are not family. You are not my father. And I don’t take orders from you.”

She moved for the door.

“And where do you think you’ll go?” He asked, his voice cold and malicious. “Who do you think will put up with you more than me?”

She paused, and then simply said, “I don’t know.” And then grabbed her bag and walked out the front door.

 

A weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and as she stepped into her front yard, even though she could feel her father’s icy gaze from the window, a small but genuine smile pulled at her lips. Her ribs were fractured, her throat raw, her whole body weak and bruised and sore. A wicked headache was pounding at the crown of her skull and still, she felt as though she were breathing clean air for the first time in her life.

Frank, her dog, ran up to her excitedly, rearing up on his hind legs and pawing her chest in greeting as he did every morning. Frank was short for Francisco, and the term ‘dog’ was to be used very loosely in the case of Francisco because he was mostly, if not all, wolf. He was a mottled mixture of grey and deep black, with sharp, intelligent eyes that were a vibrant shade of amber. Despite his hulking size, he was as lithe and graceful-looking as he was muscular, and stood level to her breasts on all fours.

She buried her hands in the thick fur of his neck, petting him roughly and affectionately. Her smile faded as she glanced back at the house. Frank was the only thing he could touch that she cared about. Her hands wrapped around the dog protectively as his ears folded back and he licked the remaining tears from her face. Was he brazen enough, angry enough with her, to go after him? Her jaw stiffened. Yes. He was.

“Hey, buddy.” She said softly, scratching her nails into the spot between his ears and he closed his eyes appreciatively. “Let’s go for a ride. You wanna go for a ride?”

The dog’s eyes snapped open at the word ‘ride’ and he barked loud enough to have her ears ringing before struggling from her embrace and bounding up to her car, a moss green, 1990 BMW convertible, jumping right into the passengers seat. She laughed and followed him, climbing into the car, which looked hilariously small in comparison to the gigantic dog riding shotgun.

 

[Francisco](http://weheartit.com/entry/group/56997089)


	9. Chapter 9

Emmett heard Chris’ car approaching the school, briefly smiling at the sound of Joan Jett’s _Bad Reputation_ blaring from the speakers, and looked to Jasper, who gave him a solemn nod.

 

            After Emmett’s talk with Rosalie, he had taken the weekend to clear his head, and then talked with Jasper. Jasper’s opinion was virtually the same as Rosalie’s: that whatever he felt for Christina, the relationship would end up doing more harm than good. Therefore, it was Jasper’s final judgment that Emmett should simply cut her off all at once and let her go on her way. He could have no further affiliation with Christina Whitmore. Truthfully, the idea made him feel almost sick, but Jasper was a leading expert on unhealthy relationships. So Emmett was quitting. Cold turkey.

 

            Of course, the plan of not talking to her was shot to hell the second she rolled into the high school parking lot and promptly made the decision to park beside them.

 

            “She’s driving this way.” Rose said as she glanced up at the old green BMW, then to the row of empty parking spaces beside Emmett’s jeep, and then did a double-take back to the BMW because Chris was not alone in the car. Beside her, there was a monstrous dog, which was sitting restlessly in the passengers’ seat, enormous front paws flopped up on the dash so it could see better, looking excitedly at all the people around it, all of the attention it was getting.

           

            “I’ve hunted grizzly bears smaller than that.” Emmett said.

 

            “It’s nearly the size of one of the Quileute wolves.” Jasper said incredulously.

 

            “ _Is it_ one of them?” Rose asked, looking wide-eyed at the dog.

           

            “No.” Edward said, if it were one of the shape-shifters from the reservation, he’d have been able to read its thoughts like a human. Actually, he found, he could not hear Francisco’s thoughts at all. His head was just as silent to the mind-reader as his owner’s.

 

            “That’s Francisco.” Alice said knowingly. “He’s her pet.”

 

            Emmett made a low-pitched noise of distress when she parked two spaces away from them and got out of the car.

 

            She looked . . . frail somehow. Her olive-toned skin was lacking the wholesome quality it usually did and her walk was less relaxed. She walked as if she were favoring her back, as if she was hurt and worried about furthering her injuries by unnecessary movement. And the smell of her blood seemed slightly stronger today, like it was on her breath. But if he’d been worried about her, it melted along with every coherent though in his head when she pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head and smiled a genuine smile at him.

 

            God—had he ever seen her smile before? If he had it wasn’t like this. This smile was radiant. There was nothing ironic or sarcastic about the smile, and it smoothed her proud, strong features into something more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen.

 

            “God, why doesn’t she just _fling me into the sun_?” He said, his voice was pleading, too low for her to hear. The other Cullens heard it, though, and smiled at the sight of big, bad, confident Emmett, floundering over a girl. But all of his floundering was gone when she came close. He relaxed his posture, folding his arms across his chest, and leaning against the door of his jeep. “You know, I haven’t actually _read_ the school handbook,” Emmett mocked, “But I’m pretty sure that giant mutant wolf-dogs are a no-no.”

 

            The dog gave a loud bark and hopped easily over the door and onto the pavement. The Cullens stiffened. Animals reacted one of two ways when in the presence of vampires: with terrible fear, or rage. But the dog did neither. He circled Chris a few times, trying to command her attention, and when he realized she was talking to someone, his attention landed on the Cullens. The dog looked at them, and then really looked at them. His mouth closed and his ears perked up, his head cocked sideways as he seemed to sense something strange about them. They were sensing something strange about Frank as well, and they realized it was the sharp, coherent, intelligent quality of his eyes. Human eyes, they almost could have been, and those eyes examined the Cullens with nothing more than curiosity.

 

            “Yeah, that’s what they keep telling me.” Chris replied, not noticing—or at least pretending not to notice—Frank’s examination of the Cullens. “But he’s taller than Principle Greene, so I figure I’ll get away with it.”

            Emmett snorted and then clicked his tongue at Frank, holding out his hand.

 

            Frank’s ears perked up even further at Emmett’s invitation, and he glanced at Chris before standing a walking cautiously forward. Emmett crouched down to make himself look a bit less intimidating, although Frank’s height probably could have rivaled Emmett’s had he stood on his hind legs. The dog sniffed his hand, and then wagged his tail and moved forward without hesitation.

 

            “Hey!” Emmett said, ruffling the dog’s fur excitedly, “He likes me!”

 

            Rosalie shook her head and bit back a smile at Emmett’s excitement, as did the rest of them.

 

            “I’d say that’s a good sign.” Chris smiled.

 

            “Are you sneaking him into the school?” Emmett asked.

 

            She nodded, “Wanna help?”

 

            “Sure, if you think you can keep up.” Emmett challenged. Jasper visibly scowled at how quickly Emmett had forgotten their plan.

 

            “Let’s go then.” She said, “C’mon Frank!”

 

            Frank jumped up excitedly, rearing up on all fours and pawing her shoulders roughly before bounding off into the trees. Emmett thought he saw her grimace in pain, but could not be sure.

 

“Emmett.” Jasper reprimanded his brother in a voice too low for the girl to hear.

 

            “Next time, be more persuasive.” Emmett shrugged, and Jasper scowled in response.


	10. Chapter 10

Obviously, Frank could not simply be walked up the front steps of the school unnoticed, so Chris took a hard left and beckoned Emmett into the forest.

 

            “We can move around the main building and come out right beside the art room. Smart.” He commended her.

 

            With the woods practically being his natural habitat, Emmett moved in front of Chris to lead the way, patiently reminding himself to move at a human pace. From back here, she could watch him.

 

           She found she liked the way he walked, with a bounce in his step that was in beat with whatever tune he was whistling at the moment—this time it was some nameless, jazzy song from the thirties or forties. Chris took note of how each of his muscles twitched and tensed as he moved, and how every movement of muscle was visible under his noticeably tight shirt. She noted how his hair seemed to have a messy, kid-like quality to it despite the fact that it did not grow past his ears, and how she was somehow certain that his eyes must have been devastatingly blue in his human life.

 

            “You’re staring at me.” He said suddenly, making her jump. He had not even been looking in her direction, but she supposed he didn’t have to be.

 

            She looked away. “Am not.”

 

            “You were.”

 

            She was silent for a bit, biting her tongue and thinking as her eyes followed Frank’s form loping through the woods.

 

            “So . . .” She began, “I’m rapidly running out of reasons not to ask you out.” She’d never seen Emmett Cullen speechless before this moment. He stood, mouthing wordlessly for a second before turning to look at her. She decided to speak again. “I mean . . . I was pretty excited about alienating you within an inch of your life, because that’s what I do when people like me. But I mean, _my dog_ likes you, so that’s a big deal. And . . . I guess I kind of do too.”

 

            “You . . . want to go out with me?” He asked, genuinely shocked.

 

            Chris wondered where in God’s name Emmett Cullen had gotten self-esteem issues. He looked like a Calvin Klein model on steroids.

 

           “Yeah.” She said, biting her lip. “So um . . . there’s that new movie coming out that they’re showing in Port Angeles, and it’s supposed to be good so I was wondering if you’d . . . wanna go. With me.”

 

            He was silent for a second, and then a small smile grew on his lips, “Well I mean, since you’re practically begging . . .”

 

            She scoffed, “Go to hell.” He laughed a genuine, loud laugh that seemed to disrupt the entire forest. “I didn’t even want to go with you anyway. I’ll take Frank.” She walked right past him, arms crossed.

           

            “Mmhmm. Okay. That was a yes by the way.” He said, keeping up with her easily. “Friday good with you?”

 

            “Sure-” But a waterlogged bit of moss gave away under her foot and she tumbled backward, hitting the ground with a gasp of pain.

            “Whoa, hey . .” Emmett stooped down to help her up. “Are you okay?”

 

            Truly, felt as if she were close to passing out, but she gave a small laugh and laid her head back in the moss.

           

            “That was sexy.” She said, her voice gruff so he wouldn’t notice the pain in it, “And here you wanted to go out with me.”

 

            “I still want to go out with you.” He said, “Are you hurt?”

 

            “Not from the fall.” She tried to get up, but gave a sharp gasp and laid back down. “Fuck.”

 

            He leaned closer, pushed her hands out of the way, and gently undid the bottom buttons on her flannel shirt.

 

            “Whoa, hands off, Cullen.” She slapped at his hands, “I’m at least gonna get dinner before you start with all that nonsense.”

 

            She tried to get up again and failed, and he smiled in spite of himself.

 

            “Calm down, Chris.” He began unbuttoning again, all the way up to her ribcage, leaving the rest alone. “I won’t unbutton it all the way until you ask me to.”

 

            “Don’t hold your breath.” She mumbled, making him smile, but it was gone once he got a good look at her stomach and ribs.

 

            “What the hell happened?” He asked.

 

            Clouds of black and blue and angry red ranged in size and severity but dotted her all over, from her hip to her breast. She was swollen and, though he was no expert, the whole thing looked odd and lumpy and out of place.

 

“Had a small altercation with a staircase.” She lied, and then grinned. “The staircase won.”

 

            “Obviously.” He said, “Were you ever planning to go to the doctor?”

 

            “I was gonna pay Dr. Cullen a visit after school.” She said, and when he looked up at her, she said “What? I had to bring my dog, and ask you out, _and_ they were having tater tots in the cafeteria. It was a full day.”

 

            He looked up. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

 

            “What? No!” She leaned away from him, grimacing in pain. “I’m going after school.”

 

            “Chris, you could be bleeding.”

 

            “I’m fine.”

           

            He leaned closer to her, his hands, slower and gentler than a human’s, grazing over her stomach, as if feeling around. She shivered involuntarily at the cold touch, flushing briefly as her fantasy from that morning replayed in her head. He glanced up and grinned, then leaned away.

 

            “Look, just . . . just get it checked out, alright?” He said, “For me?”

 

            She looked at him stubbornly, but her icy expression melted in the wake of his pleading, once-devastatingly-blue eyes. She cursed whatever bizarre affect he had on her, but relented, gesturing with her hand in the direction of the parking lot.

 

School had already begun by the time they reached the parking lot again, so it was deserted. She said nothing but pursed her lips against both a smile and a groan of pain when he effortlessly picked her up in his arms, carried her to his car, and sat her in the passengers’ seat. Then, he opened the back door and beckoned Frank to get in. Frank looked at her uncertainly, but she nodded in the direction of the back seat and clicked her tongue, and the dog jumped in.

 

            The hospital was a ten-minute ride down the road. Chris clicked the button on the CD player, finding the silence unnerving.

 

            “Uh . . .” Emmett said nervously, “I don’t think I have anything good in here. Just some . . .” The voice of Elvis floated from the speakers, “ . . . old stuff . . .” He finished, wincing and avoiding her eyes.

 

            “I have this album on vinyl.” She said quietly, a small smile forming on her lips.

 

            He scoffed and then chuckled. “Hipster.”

 

            “They were my moms.” Chris said, looking out the window and sounding quieter and more sincere than he’d ever hear her. “I have videos of her dancing to this song while she was pregnant with me.”

 

            “Where is she now?” He asked, glancing sideways at her.

 

            “She died having me, actually. I never knew her.” She said, her mind wandering to her father against her will. It was the real reason he detested her so much. He thought Chris killed her own mother.

 

            “I’m sorry.” He said, grabbing her hand before even thinking about it. He seemed to freeze, once he’d realized what he’d done, but she just squeezed his hand in response.

            They arrived at the hospital, and Chris only realized her grave mistake when they entered the ER and Carlisle Cullen’s eyes landed on her, and a look of epiphany crossed his face as if he just now recognized her, and then suddenly realized he knew a great deal more about her than he’d originally thought.

 

            _Fuck._ She’d done it now. She schooled her expression into one of impassiveness as she shook her head almost imperceptibly at the young doctor.

 

            “Emmett,” Carlisle approached them, eyes lingering on her. “What’s wrong?”

 

            “This is Chris. She fell down some steps or something.” Emmett said.

 

            “Or something.” Carlisle said knowingly, looking at her.

 

            He knew the lies she told to cover up her father’s abuse. He was one of the first to know.

 

            “Yeah, can you check her out?” Emmett asked.

 

            Carlisle looked for a moment as if he was going to say something, before he gave a polite smile.

 

            “Of course.” He said graciously. “Right this way, Chris.”

 

            She only just realized Emmett had been holding her hand, and he was reluctant to let it go.

 

            “I’ll be fine.” She said, reassuringly, as she let go of him. “Flirt with the nurses or something. I’ll be back in no time.”

 

            She turned to follow Carlisle, her stomach dropping as he led her from the ER, down several hallways to a familiar examination room, in a secluded part of the hospital. It was the one he always examined her in.

 

            “How much does he know?” Carlisle asked, shutting the door behind her.

 

            “Nothing.” She said stiffly.

 

            “You haven’t told him anything?”

 

            “Up until very recently I didn’t think I liked him enough to warrant telling him the truth.” She sat on the examination table.

 

            “Lie down.” He said, gently nudging her backward. She obeyed and he lifted her shirt to examine her.

 

            Carlisle had been treating her injuries quietly for the past two years, almost as long as he and his family have been in Forks. It was only in the past two years that Chris’ relationship with her father had devolved into blatant physical abuse. And she could not see a regular doctor because, as a witch, her body functioned quite differently than a humans. This made Carlisle perfect, but she could not have the local family of vampires finding out about the witches who’ve been living under their noses, so she did a simple memory trick to make him forget about her every time she got the care she needed.

 

            “Explain to me again why I cannot remember you after you leave?” Carlise said as he poked and prodded across her ribcage.

 

            “As a witch, it’s my primary gift and responsibility to remain invisible to you. You probably never would have noticed my existence at all if Emmett hadn’t gone and gotten a crush on me.” She said.

 

            “So you erase my memories because you’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

 

            “And because if my father found out I was seeking the help of a vampire he would _literally_ cut my throat.”

 

            He pursed his lips at the mention of her father. “What did he throw you into this time?”

 

            “The dining room table.” She answered, “Although, I probably could have stopped it if he hadn’t poisoned me first.”

 

            Carlisle looked up. “With _what?_ ”

 

            She smirked, “I can’t yield all my weaknesses to a _vampire_.”

 

            Carlisle shook his head. “He’s getting more volatile. You were in for another injury just a few weeks ago.”

 

            She nodded. That one had happened the night before Emmett joined her in the art room to sharpen pencils.

 

            “We were fighting over your son, actually.” She said, “He threw me down the steps when I wasn’t looking. It was a cheap shot.”

 

            Carlisle sighed, “You know I can’t condone you staying with him, Christina. Not if he’s hurting you like this.”

 

            “Carlisle I’ve been practicing.” She argued. “Every chance I get, I practice. I’m stronger than him, I can feel it. He just . . . doesn’t fight fair. But I’m not living with him anymore, I won’t.”

 

            Carlisle seemed to think for a moment before speaking, “My family can help you, Christina.”

 

            She looked away from him, shaking her head, because he’d suggested the same thing a million times.

 

            “I can’t ask you to do that, and you know it.”

 

            “You don’t have to ask. I’m offering. We can protect you.”

 

            “Carlisle,” She sat up and looked at him, “You’re a helper, I know. You like to save people. But this isn’t something you can help me with. Not right now.” She said darkly. “Vampires aren’t the only things that can kill vampires. There are magical ways to do it and my father won’t hesitate to use them on your family if he wanted to. He’s dangerous for you, and your wife, and Emmett . . .” She lay back down, shaking her head at her own stupidity. How could she have been so selfish as to ask Emmett out when her father was such a dangerous enemy? “I should have never even gotten this involved.” She mumbled, looking down.

 

            His expression was sympathetic before he, too, looked away. “He managed to break two of your ribs, and, with your accelerated healing, they’ve grown back together improperly. I’m afraid I’ll have to rebreak them.”

 

            She wiped an escaped tear from her cheek. “Do what you have to do.”

 

            As Carlisle broke and fixed her, she thought about what _she_ had to do. That morning . . . coming on to Emmett, asking him out . . . it was a lapse in judgment. She’d just stood up to her father, she’d felt untouchable, but she was far from it. Her father knew about Emmett. She couldn’t think about what he’d do to him if he knew Emmett was any more than a common acquaintance.

 

            Chris thanked Carlisle, and wiped his memory, and then took a second in the hallway to steady herself in what she was about to do.

 

            Emmett met her in the empty waiting room, jumping up eagerly from his seat and struggling to maintain human pace as he ran toward her, remembering himself and slowing just before she reached him.

 

            “Hey!” He greeted her with a smile, “How is everything?”

 

            He was so eager, so honest, genuine concern for her written all over his face. She almost lost it right there, but instead pulled him into a tight hug, flinging her arms around his neck.

 

            “Whoa, hey . . .” He said, his tone soft and adoring, “What’s this for?”

 

            “I’m apologizing in advance.” She whispered, and then pulled away and looked him in the eyes.

 

            “What for?” He asked, concerned.

 

She focused on him, mumbling a few words in a language no one but her family had heard in thousands of years. She felt his mind go blank.

 

            “You liked me but you got over it.” She said slowly, her eyes trained on him and her voice shaking. “You found out that I was everything I was trying to be. Cold and snarky and demanding. And I didn’t deserve you. You’ll talk with me in art, but you won’t think about me when you go home. I’ll be an acquaintance. Nothing more.”

 

            His eyes were turbulent, as if somewhere inside he knew what she was doing, and wanted nothing more than to stop her, but he could not. He didn’t have the power to, so he nodded blankly. A tear fell on her cheek and her lips quivered when she pressed them to his, as she had wanted to do—without really knowing it—for quite some time. He kissed back urgently, as if trying to stop her. His hands found her face and she felt the pad of his thumb catch one of her tears, a last comforting gesture before she broke away in a sob. She looked back at him. His face was still blank, though his eyes were sad.

 

            “And you will forget this ever happened.” Her final command left her lips in a barely audible voice, and by the time he’d fully awakened from the trance, she was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Chris woke with the rising sun, and laid there for a moment, as she often did, just thinking.

 

            After the incident with her father, and the table and chairs, and Emmett and Carlisle at the hospital, she decided to focus wholeheartedly on herself. On learning and strengthening her powers as a witch, on her academic career, on becoming a fully functioning, and responsible adult.

 

Days passed, then weeks, then months. She got emancipated from her father. Charlie helped with all the legal stuff, as well as vouched for her at the hearing, so the process was a bit shorter than it would have been normally. Since her father had never really helped her with, well, anything, the emancipation didn’t really change much. She was still working for her money, paying for her own gas, and relying on herself; it just made it possible for her to get her own apartment.

 

With electric and water bills, and on a minimum-wage salary, the only apartment she could afford was a total dive. It didn’t bother her much, though. It was really only a place to sleep and shower, and put everything she’d had in her father’s house.

 

            Overall, she was happier than she’d ever been before. Not overall . . . she missed Emmett, but she knew she’d done the right thing, even if it didn’t feel like it to her.

 

            Something else that had changed was that her father was now ignoring her entirely. The idea that he’d lost his control of her drove him crazy—he’d even tried threatening her and Frank, for a while—but ever since the emancipation was finalized, he’d gone quiet. Completely silent. Not so much as an icy look in the hallway at school. This made her nervous, more than the threats ever did. If he was quiet, he was most certainly up to something. But she did not know what it could be.

 

            She worried for Silas, simply because he was the only person in her life that was close to her, and therefore was the only person, that her father knew of, that he could go after in order to hurt her. But it wasn’t possible. There were certain unshakeable rules about magic. Chris had learned this since she’d begun studying. Breaking the rules had weighty magical consequences, and one of the most absolute rules was that a witch (or wizard) could not kill another witch, or another witch’s Familiars.

 

            Familiars were beings that accompanied witches, and were connected physically and spiritually to a single witch. Frank was her Familiar, and lately, she suspected, Silas was one too. Familiars were typically in the form of animals, but human familiars were not unheard of. She’d been friends with Silas since before she could remember, and they’d always had an especially strong connection. It had never been sexual, or romantic, they were just especially . . . in tune with each other. Practiced magic-wielders who knew what to look for could spot Familiars, so there was no doubt that her father knew what Silas was. It was probably why he tried so hard to separate them as kids, and only reluctantly accepted that they were inseparable.

 

            Human familiars were rare, a single witch having two familiars was extremely rare. She’d always had a sneaking suspicion that her powers were greater than that of an average witch, but her father kept her so isolated from the magical world she had no way of knowing. Now, she suspected that was his goal. The only reason he’d kept her alive after her mother died was because he was bound by magical law not to kill her, and the only reason he hadn’t dropped her off at an orphanage somewhere was because he wanted to be there for every step of her development, to stop her from realizing the extent of her power.

 

            She did not yet know the extent of her power, but she was well on her way to finding out. And her father knew that, and it made him all the more dangerous.

 

 

            Emmett was sitting outside Christina Whitmore’s apartment. He didn’t know why.

 

            After he took her to the hospital, it was . . . kind of like she ceased to exist for a while. He remembered crushing on her, and then crushing on her a lot, and then things got sort of fuzzy. He’d started off after the hospital visit completely over her. He’d been crushing on her until he realized how cold and demanding she was. He’d taken her to Carlisle as nothing more than a friend, and he didn’t even really like her at all. His brain told him all of this and for the longest time he believed it. But it’s like he became less sure as time wore on. Like he felt one way but could not stop himself from thinking another.

 

            No matter how mean he remembered her to be, he could not suppress the nagging, hollow sense of need he felt whenever she pushed into his thoughts, which she did often. It was the most unpleasant thing he could ever remember feeling, like he was heartbroken and hadn’t the slightest clue why, like something inexplicable was yanking him toward this girl and he was in no position to stop it. So he watched her. And he wandered dangerously close to her. And he searched for what it was that made him want to be near her. And he loved her. And he didn’t know why.


	12. Chapter 12

Chris arrived in the school parking lot on a dewy Wednesday morning. Frank jumped from the back seat and padded off into the woods, where he roamed around until ten after three, when she was ready to leave. They were well into May, her Sophomore year drawing to an end. Chris had passed all of her exams, gotten her GPA right up to a 3.9, and the clouds that hung permanently over Forks were starting to permit a little sunlight here and there. Life was going well.

 

            Silas wheeled into the school parking lot, blasting something with a heavy beat, and hopped from his vehicle, handing her a coffee from McDonalds and an apple pecan salad.

 

            “Breakfast.” He said, munching his own chicken biscuit, “Eat.”

 

            “For the last time, Si, I’m not so broke that I’m starving to death. We do work at the same restaurant you know. You literally _watch_ me eat dinner.” She said, though she graciously accepted the coffee and food.

 

            “What’d you have for breakfast this morning?” He rose a perfect brow.

 

            She rolled her eyes. “Fair enough.”

 

            She moved over to the grass and sat on top of one of the dilapidated picnic tables, him following her.

           

            “How’s the magic thing going?” He asked, glancing around the parking lot first to make sure the Cullens had not arrived yet, and could not overhear the conversation. Silas had known about her powers since she was thirteen years old, when they really started developing.

 

            “Well enough. Practically living in the forest is helping.” She said, chewing her salad pensively. “I’m getting stronger.”

 

            He nodded just as Emmett’s black jeep pulled up, Rosalie’s car on it’s trail, and all of them emerged from the vehicles.

 

            “Are they saying anything interesting?” Silas asked in a barely audible voice, quiet enough that the Cullens would not decipher it over the rumble of car engines and multiple conversations going on in the lot.

 

            “My hearing isn’t _that_ much stronger than yours.” She said, “And I don’t particularly want to know-”

 

Just as she said it, though, she heard her name mentioned. She turned acutely, so that her left ear faced them, and focused her energy on their conversation.  

 

“I just want to know why.” Emmett said, and though his voice was casual, there was an edge to it that was hardly ever there, and that the rest of them sensed.

 

“Because we still need to know if the girl is human or not, Emmett.” Jasper said, and Chris realized they were talking about her. “I know you’ve gotten over her, or-”

 

“Don’t.” Emmett said shortly.

 

Jasper exchanged glances with Rose, who looked worried.

 

“Emmett, are you okay?” Rosalie asked.

 

“I’m fine, I just don’t see why this is still an issue. What is she going to tell me now that she wouldn’t a month ago, especially since we’re no longer friends?”  

 

“We’re just asking that you try.” Rose said, “If you aren’t comfortable with it then-”

 

“I’m fine.” He cut them off, shouldering a book bag which very rarely ever held anything and striding toward the school.

 

           

            “What is it?” Silas asked, trying to judge her expression. “What’d they say?”

 

            She shook her head quietly, murmured something about getting to class, and walked away. Silas and Rosalie, from opposite sides of the parking lot, worriedly watched the retreating figures of their best friends, and then Silas briefly met Rosalie’s eyes, but cast his own away quickly, avoiding her stare.

 

 

            Chris retreated into the art room. _You did what was best for him. You did what was best for him. You did what was best for him._

She put her head in her hands, and pressed her palms into her eyelids until white dots appeared in her vision. _If you hadn’t done it, he’d have gotten hurt. Or worse. And you know it. You know it, you know it, you know it._

But he was hurting anyway. She knew he was, she could . . . she could _feel_ it apart from her own pain. He might not know why he’s hurting, but he is. She grit her teeth against tears. She would not cry. She had not let herself cry thus far and she’d be damned if she started now. Why hadn’t he just forgotten about her? It seems her own father had.

 

            A knock at the door. Just the face she hadn’t wanted to see.

 

            “Goff sent me to sharpen more pencils.” Emmett said, stepping into the room and offering his signature easy-going smile, though it was not a convincing one. “Apparently it’s an ongoing punishment.”

 

            She pulled herself together, though she could feel that it wasn’t very convincing either.

 

            “You know where the sharpeners are.” She gestured to the pencil box in the corner and finding an excuse to turn away from him. “Do you need help again?”

 

            “I think I’ve got it this time.” He said.

 

            She cringed. There was a noticeable awkwardness, a void of things he wanted to say, but could not remember what they were, a void of things she wanted more than anything to hear, but knew she never could. So they sat in silence.

 

            Chris started working on her painting, mostly giving her an excuse to hide behind a canvas, and Emmett set to work sharpening his pencils.

 

            “Say,” He said suddenly, almost startling her. “Where are you from?”

 

            She cringed again. His family was still pushing him for information on her, and he no longer had a nonchalant way of getting it out of her. This left him asking random questions.

 

            She looked up at him, and then scrunched her eyebrows. “Um . . . Santa Barbara?”

 

            He closed his mouth, and then opened it again, “I mean—uh . . where is your family from?”

 

            She glanced at him, and then back down. “My ancestors are from Greece, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

            “Oh,” He said, “So . . . Greek mythology and stuff . . . that would be part of your—um—history?”

 

            She put her paintbrush down. “I guess? Why do you want to know?”

 

            She knew why he wanted to know—maybe her culture would give away this weird power that she seemed to have—but the discordance between them made her anxious, and when she was anxious she got hostile.

 

            “I was just wondering.” He put his hands up in a defensive gesture, and then they fell at his sides and he scrunched his brows, as if he were sad but had forgotten why. “I’m sorry, if I offended you.”

 

Why did he always have to look at her like that? Why couldn’t she erase _that_ from his mind? She cursed and put her head in her hands, wondering if it was possible to erase her affection as well as his.

 

“No,” She shook her head, trying to hide the wetness in her eyes, “It’s just a bad day.”

 

            “Well then . . .” He paused, “I’m sorry you seem to have so many of those.”

 

            He stood and thanked her for letting him use the sharpeners, and left.


	13. Chapter 13

She lazily opened her eyes, and as she did, she remembered what day it was, and she groaned, and closed them again.

 

            “That’s against the rules, you know.” A voice came from the foot of her bed.

 

            She shot up, promptly whacked her head on the shelf, then groaned, and rolled unceremoniously from the bed, dragging the blanket with her and hitting the floor with a thud, clutching her forehead.

 

            Silas’ snickering made her scowl.

 

            “How did you get _in here?_ ” She looked around, bewildered.

 

            “You didn’t lock the kitchen window.” He said.

 

            “And you crawled across my kitchen sink and into my bedroom because . . . ?”

           

            “You know what day it is. And birthdays are not for sleeping, or sulking, or being sad.” Silas said.

 

            “You clearly have not paid very good attention to my birthday celebrations.” She said flatly. “Just let this one go, Silas. I’m clearly not in the mood.”

 

            “That’s why you need to go.” He said, helping her off the ground. “I think having one night to just . . . just lose it, would do you some good.”

 

            She rubbed her eyes and combed the hair from her face, and looked at him. “I’m listening.”

 

            He pulled her into the kitchen where a hot cup of coffee was waiting for her.

 

            “We don’t have school or work tomorrow, for Memorial Day. So, we get dressed tonight, head up to Seattle, get _completely_ trashed,” He said, “Pick a fight, suck a dick, steal a car,” She snorted into her coffee, “And then come back and recuperate, and we’ll be ready for school on Tuesday.”

 

            She chewed on her lip, and then gave a frustrated sigh. “You have no idea what I’d give just to . . _. not think_ . . . for a while.” She said honestly, massaging her temples as if trying to be rid of a headache that just won’t go away. “But everything about what you just said reeks of a bad idea. I can’t afford a mistake right now.”

 

            Silas leaned forward and grabbed her free hand in both of his. “I’ll be right with you the whole time.” He said, “Look, you’ve done . . . _ridiculously well_. . . handling everything that’s going on. You’ve always done ridiculously well handling things, but I think one night of fun would do you an enormous amount of good. Just to get out of your head for a while. No Emmett, no family issues, no responsibilities.”

 

            She sipped her coffee. “But I don’t want ‘no Emmett.’ I want an abundance of Emmett in my life. That’s the problem.”

 

            “Okay, well when you’re drunk you won’t remember that.” He smiled. “C’mon, what d’you say?”

 

            She tried to talk herself out of it, but she figured a night out of her head sounded like a pretty good deal. Just one night. She could afford to lose control for one night.


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

            They were in Seattle by the time the sun set that day. It was truly beautiful to witness the city just as darkness had fallen and the rain had let up, with all of the lights hitting the wet pavement and shattering into a million stars of different color. The weather did not stop the city from moving, especially in the part to which Silas led her. It was almost an entire branch of the city in itself, a cluster of colorful streets. During the day, it served as a sort of artisan neighborhood, with old bookstores, coffee shops, bakeries, antiques dealers, and caterers. By night, the streets lit up with bars and clubs, karaoke joints and tattoo parlors, illustrating the wilder side of the city. People travelled in clusters, huddled together but no less merry, either having fun in the rain or a bit to intoxicated to care that they were getting soaked.

 

            "This is great.” She commented, peering beyond the streetlights into a busy shop.

            “Isn’t it?” He said. “So where to first? And if you say the bookstore then I might have to strangle you.” She sighed, not willing to admit that that had been her first choice.

            “Let’s get drunk.” She said decisively. He smiled.

 

            “That’s the spirit!” He said, punching her in the shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Now, pick your poison. Uh, we’ve got . . . cheap beer--” He pointed to one of the more run down bars, populated with about two people. “—Jell-O shots--” A club blasting an indiscernible song with a deafening beat into the street. “—or something with a paper umbrella stuck in the top.” A Hawaiian-themed place with tiki torches burning around a lit patio.

            “Hmm . . .” She thought, putting her finger to her chin. “I’m thinking Jell-O shots.”

            “An excellent choice.” He said enthusiastically, before grabbing her hand and pulling her in the direction of the club. The dance floor was packed with writhing bodies and the music was so loud that she could hardly hear herself think—which, she decided, was probably a good thing. Drinking, not thinking, was the objective of tonight. Drinking, not thinking.

            Deciding on aggressive action, she and Silas downed shots by the handful and as fast as they could, not even hitting the dance floor until they were sufficiently tipsy. Without hesitation, they dove into the mass of people, dancing closely on each other until Silas was pulled into the middle of a group of college girls. Oz gave her a small wave and a wolfish smile as two or three of the girls moved in on him. Chris danced alone in the crowd (which was a lot like dancing with a partner, as they were all packed so closely together), smiling, laughing, and have a genuinely good time. There was something uplifting about being in such a large group of people, every one of them drunk and excited and dancing clumsily on people they hardly knew. It made her feel as though no one was looking at her, that no one was depending on her. She felt a weight lifted from her chest for the first time in a while, and she danced until, covered in sweat from half-a-dozen different people, she made her way back to the bar.

 

            “Where the hell did you come from, sweetheart?” A college kid, attractive, with dark, curly hair. The corners of his mouth—and she noticed it was a very nice mouth—were turned up in a flirtatious smile, but his eyes, she could tell, were good-natured.

 

            “Nowhere important.” She said back.

 

            She leaned on the bar for a while, and let him pay for her drink while her eyes wandered over his body. She almost would have left with him right there. Good gracious, had it been _that_ long since she’d gotten laid? Yes, she realized, yes it had. Far too long.

 

            “Like what you see?” He asked, catching her eye.

 

            “Not bad.” She said, but a song came over the speakers that she recognized and immediately she turned to the dance floor. Seeing that he wasn’t following her, she asked him loudly, “Are you gonna follow me, college boy, or do you wanna finish that drink?”

 

            He smiled and decided to do both, gulping down his vodka and then taking her hand and letting her lead him into the crowd.

 

            At first, they simply moved with the music. But she was rocking her hips in an invitation he could not, and did not, refuse. He gravitated toward her, placing his hand on her waist as she danced and smiling, but appeared to be waiting for her to make the first move. Chris was having none of his reservation. She was not here to mess around.

 

            She turned around so she was facing away from him and pulled him so his hips were flush against her ass, and began moving against him. Immediately, he grabbed her waist and held her tighter against him, at first just letting her move on him before he began grinding into her as well. She let one hand travel up to tangle its fingers in his hair as he leaned over to kiss her neck and occasionally whisper in her ear. She turned around and let him continue to move against her as she pulled him down into a heated kiss, and it wasn’t after much more of that when she was giggling as she pulled him into one of the bathrooms at the back of the club.

 

            As if what they’d done on the dance floor had been just goofing off, the boy was all business now. He lifted her up so she was straddling him and sat her roughly on the sink counter. His hands palmed clumsily up her sides to her breasts while their tongues struggled for dominance. He was clearly the alpha-male type, like Emmett but without the cleverly disguised gentle nature. A stereotypical fuckboy, very used to being the dominant one in sexual situations. But if he thought she was going to submit to him, he was in for a deliciously rude awakening.

 

            Tiring of wrestling around with him, her teeth closed over his bottom lip, nipping it hard and then sucking on it gently. His breathing shallowed and he grabbed her ass and ground her hips into his, letting her feel how much he wanted her, and she let out a moan in response. She kissed his neck as she undid the buttons of his shirt, smiling against his skin as she heard how labored his breathing had become.

 

            _Drinking, not thinking._ She thought. _And apparently fucking. There. Finally. That’s something you’re good at._

 

            He unbuttoned his pants and her hand slid down his stomach, cupping him.

 

            “Fuck.” He breathed letting his head drop back.

 

            She stopped.

 

            _No, no, no. Not again_.

 

            It was Emmett’s voice she’d heard.

 

            She shook it from her head. That boy could NOT keep cock-blocking her without even knowing it. She would not allow it.

            She kept on, pulling off her own shirt and letting him leave kisses down to her navel, but it was Emmett’s lips that trailed between her breasts.

 

            _No._

Chris snapped back to reality and found herself on the verge of a panic attack.

 

 _You did what was best for him, you did what was best for him, you did what was best for him, you did you did you did_ . . . Having her wits dulled by the alcohol was not helping. Suddenly she felt trapped by the boy, claustrophobic and too hot and like there was an enormous weight on her chest, like she couldn’t breathe. She pushed the boy away from her hard enough that he hit the wall behind him.

 

           “Whoa, hey! What the fuck?” He demanded.

 

           “Forget this ever happened.” She growled, tugging her tank top back on. She was barely holding herself together, but her magic seemed to be fine because his anger disappeared immediately.

 

            The boy left the bathroom stall in a daze to find another girl to grind on. She looked after him, feeling enormously sexually frustrated and pissed off and panicky. She needed fresh air. She contemplated telling Silas where she was going, but by the looks of him, he was more than occupied. She pulled on her jacket and stepped outside, sitting down on the sidewalk.

 

            Finally feeling like she could breathe, she let her head drop between her knees.

 

            _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ She asked herself _. Is there anything you can do right anymore? Without thinking of him?_

 

            “Hey.” Someone called, and she realized they must have been talking to her because she was the only one within hearing range. She looked around for someone and found a huge figure walking toward her. It was a man she could tell, and quite a threatening one, but all else was blurred by the street light, ad she’d have been too drunk to identify him anyway.

 

            “If you’re trying to help me, I don’t need it.” She lit a cigarette, and took a drag of it, “And I’m waaay to emotionally instable to be sexually harassed right now, so I’d venture to guess that wouldn’t end well for you.”

 

            Emmett looked at her. She looked so different, curled up on the street. Much less threatening somehow. He’d only been hunting just outside Seattle when . . . he felt something. Something inexplicable which he could not put his finger on. It was not as if he’d made the conscious decision to come into the city, it was just like he’d looked down and his feet were carrying him in that direction. And when they’d stopped walking, here he was. With her.    

            “I didn’t know you smoked.” He said, because it was the first thing that came into his head.

 

            “I don’t.” She laid down on the sidewalk. “How do people live here? You can never see the stars.” She gestured widely to the sky. “It’s jus . . . dark.” She said vaguely, frowning. Her hand dropped back to the pavement and she mumbled, “Ow.”  

 

            “You’re a little drunk, aren’t you?” He said, amused.

 

            “If I was just a little drunk I’d be standin’.” She said flatly, and then her head rolled to face him, “You’re frickin’ tall.”  

 

            “You’re on the frickin’ ground.” He held back his amusement. “It’s a bit dangerous to be out here all on your own isn’t it?”

 

            She sat up, “ANd JUS what makes you think-” She said defiantly, clawing her way up a trashcan in order to get onto her feet, “That I’m not twice as dangerous as the . . .” Her eyes lulled shut as she searched for words, “ . . . theee . . . dangerous . . . dangers out here . . . ?” She raised an eyebrow as though she’d outsmarted him.

 

            “That’s a very good point.” He said, unable to conceal his smile any longer. “You’re adorable when you’re drunk. Not quite as scary. I’ll miss this.”

 

            _You miss her anyway. Even the scary parts._ His mind pointed out, but he ignored it. He was getting good at ignoring his common sense.

 

            “I miss a lot of things.” She said quietly, but he could not reply because she reached out to brace herself on what turned out to be nothing, and toppled out into the street. “SHI-”

 

            She felt everything quicken, and a sudden breeze, and just when she expected her body to hit the ground, she appeared not to be touching the ground at all.

 

            “You’re much more graceful when you’re sober.” Emmett’s deep chuckle vibrated in his chest, and made her aware that he was holding her.

 

            “Whoa HEY. HEY. No touching.” She struggled against him, writhing and rolling and squirming from his grip.

 

            “Hey, alright.” He held her tighter. “No funny business. Scout’s honor.”

 

            “That’s exactly what a sexual predator would say.” She said warily, then got distracted. “How tall are you exactly? Would it kill me if I fall?”

 

            He rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

 

            She looked at him as if he were stupid. “It was a serious question.” He snorted and she let her head fall back, “You’re gonna get tired, holding me.”

 

            “Never.” Was all he said.

           

            “Christina? Christina!” Emmett turned to see Silas hurrying out of a nearby club, looking around for her.  

 

            “I assume this is yours.” Emmett said, approaching him with Chris in his arms.

 

            “I am NO ONE’S! ” She said suddenly, flopping around in defiance and making Emmett struggle to hold on to her.

 

            “That’s her alright.” Silas said, relieved. “Thanks man. What are you doing here?”

 

            “Oh, Rose and Alice are shopping in the city.” Emmett lied, “I was just wandering around when I saw her.”  

 

            Silas nodded, and then looked to her, “You scared the hell out of me.”

 

            “ _You_ wanted to get drunk.” She said, still looking at the stars.

 

            “Just take care of her, alright?” Emmett said, “You guys get a hotel or something.”

 

            “We’ve got one.” Silas said, taking Chris from his arms. “See you later, Emmett.”

 

            Her head snapped up. “ _Who?_ ”

 

            Emmett let out a deep, booming laugh. “Take care, Chris. I’ll see you at school.”

           

            He made off down the street, leaving Chris to watch him, warily and uncertainly, before she snapped out of it.

 

            “I swear I know that guy,” She said mildly.

 

            Silas rolled his eyes and scoffed, “We need to get you into a shower.”


End file.
